Behavioral Health
by Molly4
Summary: Prequel to "Session." What happened when Seth came home?


Having commandeered my father's laptop for the day, I bring you this, a story I wasn't planning on writing, but just sort of came out. It's a prequel to "Session."  
  
Disclaimers: I don't own The OC or any of the characters mentioned in this work of fiction. They belong to Josh Schwartz and the gang at FOX.  
  
Behavioral Health: By: Molly  
  
When he finally came home, all the planned speeches, all the carefully orchestrated chidings, flew directly out the window. He was not who he once was.  
  
Sandy hardly recognized the broken little boy who stood on his doorstep, his duffel bag on the ground beside him. This was not his Seth. All the pain and anger he'd experienced going two days without his son melted away, and all he wanted was to hold his little boy.  
  
"Seth," he whispered, and he grabbed his son into a tight and tender hug. He knew that Seth was crying, that he'd probably been crying since Ryan left him those two days ago. Sandy didn't know what to do or what to say to fix this, to make it better for him.  
  
He slid a kiss onto Seth's temple, not letting go even when Seth's lanky arms made attempts to pull away.  
  
"You don't have to cry, Dad," Seth whispered. "I'm okay."  
  
But Sandy cried and he didn't think he'd ever stop until his son was really and truly okay. Until both of his sons were home safe and okay.  
  
Kirsten walked on in the pats and murmurs, the tears and whispers, and found her way into their embrace. She'd been crying practically non-stop since both her boys went away, one in a yellow convertible and another on a tiny little sail boat, two vastly inappropriate and unworthy vehicles for her white knights. She held onto Seth for dear life, needing to touch him and keep him real.  
  
The tearful reunion gave way to excruciating awkwardness. Sandy and Kirsten couldn't bring themselves to punish or lecture Seth, who floated around the house depressed, despondent, and listless. And somehow, they knew it wasn't a temper tantrum or a cry for attention or sympathy; Seth was making an effort to be happy and okay. What frightened them was that his efforts always came up short; plastic smiles fading before they even had a chance to touch his lips. He didn't eat much anymore, picking at his meals for ten minutes before excusing himself from the table. Kirsten couldn't help but think that whatever Seth was looking for when he sailed his tiny ship out into that big ocean, he hadn't found it. He was not at peace.  
  
He wasn't sleeping either, as Sandy discovered when he'd stumbled into the kitchen at three in the morning for a glass of water. The flashing lights from the television that bounced off the walls told Sandy that someone was in the living room. He could rule out the warm body that was sleeping next to him just before he'd been jarred from sleep with a dry throat, so that left only one person. His broken little boy.  
  
And there he'd been, curled up in the fetal position watching an infomercial, eyes glazed over put pointed in the general direction of the screen.  
  
Sandy was afraid.  
  
Seth knew that they knew that he wasn't the same anymore. He heard their quiet murmurs at bedtime, when he was trying to sleep, trying to find peace in his world. The soft rumbling voices that had once lulled him off to a comfortable sleep now haunted him, as words like 'depressed' and 'unresponsive' floated around.  
  
"What are we going to do, Sandy?"  
  
Seth squeezed his eyes shut tight, wishing he weren't a problem they had to deal with, wishing he could just go away forever, never having to think about Newport or Ryan, or any of it. He could hardly breathe anymore, let alone smile or laugh.  
  
His father slipped into his room early the next morning, standing over his bed, the one he'd sneaked back into at sunrise, just in case.  
  
Seth opened his eyes, a clever sleeping ploy, to find his dad studying him sadly, his arms crossed, his face a mask of confusion and pain.  
  
"Tell me," Sandy began slowly, fighting off an onslaught of emotions. "Tell me what to do to make things better...please...I need to make this better."  
  
Seth swallowed, choked on the words rising in his throat, and stuttered through his reply.  
  
"I-I don't know." He closed his eyes and exhaled sharply. "I'm sorry." He scrunched his face and sighed. "I'm so sorry."  
  
Sandy left right then, wanting to comfort Seth but having no idea how. He couldn't help him anymore.  
  
Kirsten was sitting in the kitchen, sipping at the vodka she'd slipped into her coffee cup, hoping no one would look inside and discover her crutch. She was waiting patiently for the verdict for Sandy. They were determined to figure something out, the pick up the pieces and put them back together, make things whole again  
  
Sandy walked in, shoulders slumped, and shook his head.  
  
Kirsten chugged the rest of her coffee.  
  
Seth climbed into the backseat of the Range Rover, having no clue what his dad meant when he said "Get in the car; we have to go." His black suitcase peeked out underneath the seat. Seth's heart dropped.  
  
"Where are we going?" he asked quietly. Part of him knew somehow, though the suitcase was just a suitcase; they could have been taking him anywhere. But somehow he knew. Part of him accepted it without much thought, while a good majority of him wanted to close his eyes and sink into the seat, never to be seen or heard from again.  
  
His mother turned around from the passenger seat, tears and a little drunkenness in her eyes. Her face crumpled slightly as she looked at Seth, her face overflowing with pity and pain.  
  
"We can't help you anymore, baby." She turned back around, but Seth could still hear her choked sobs, could still hear that tender 'baby' sliding around his ears. The loving term of endearment he wasn't used to hearing from his mother.  
  
"I'll be good," Seth whispered quietly, but he didn't think they heard him, or if they did, they didn't act like it. Tears of frustration sprang up in his eyes, and he punched the back of the passenger seat angrily. "I'll be good," he choked. "I'll be good."  
  
The hospital lights were white and blinding. His father's arm was around his shoulder as they approached the front desk, his other hand clutching Seth's suitcase tightly. There was a sign on the door: BEHAVIORAL HEALTH. Seth fought back the bile that surged through his throat. He wanted to melt into a puddle and be mopped up by the on-duty janitor. He wanted to float away.  
  
It wasn't long before they had a room set up and all of his forms filled out. The suitcase was transferred to unfamiliar hands. The face accompanied by those hands gave a kindly smile, and assured him that everything would be okay.  
  
His father pulled Seth's body tightly to his. Kirsten was still in the car, still upset, still drunk.  
  
Seth wanted to bury himself into his father's chest and disappear in the folds of his shirt. He wanted to be anywhere but where he was. He felt a tear fall from his father's cheek and onto his own skin, and it burnt him like a hot iron.  
  
"I'll be good," he whispered into his father's shoulder, meaning it with everything that was in him. He wasn't crying anymore, and part of him believed that if he wanted it as badly as he did right then, that he would be okay.  
  
"You are good," Sandy whispered. "You're good."  
  
"Then I'll be better," Seth choked out, needing for his father to rip the suitcase from the man in white's grip and march him right back to the car.  
  
His father kissed him gently on the forehead. Seth thought about when he was little, how he used to treasure every bit of affection his parents bestowed upon him, how he loved their doting and their nurturing. How he'd sit on his father's lap and trace his tiny fingers over the stubble on Sandy's chin, how it would make his father smile. How he loved to hop into bed between his parents crying tummy ache, but really just wanting to be near them, inhaling their comforting mix of smells, spice and wood from his father and warm vanilla from his mother. And how that all changed after a few years, how he didn't like it when his father put his arm around him, or tried to kiss him goodnight or used one of his many creative pet names. How he reduced his mother to a single kiss goodnight and very little more. He wanted to tell his dad that he missed those days of constant comfort and love. That he didn't mind his kisses goodnight anymore.  
  
But he couldn't say a word.  
  
"There was no other way," his father told him sadly, as Seth was led through those doors: BEHAVIORAL HEALTH. "We're helping you now." 


End file.
